


self indulgent sparring fantasy

by soofjam



Category: Original Work
Genre: Master/Apprentice, Other, POV Second Person, Porn with Implied Plot, Praise Kink, Swordplay, ambiguous fantasy medieval setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:35:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28222515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soofjam/pseuds/soofjam
Summary: i only meant to be abstractly horny but i accidentally let it go too far and got horny with what could easily be fleshed out into ocs if i had the dedication. anyway, "you" ended up being a semi-immortal wandering warrior man who's taken up residence at some kind of castle keep, and "me" is some kind of middle class-ish kid of indeterminate gender who needs sword lessons. not posting this with the rest of my smut bc i feel like this one is a little better and i've been working on this in bits for like 6 months
Kudos: 3





	self indulgent sparring fantasy

i've been quietly building comfort and confidence with a blade in my spare time, getting used to the weight of it in my hand when i swing. never at anyone, or in front of anyone--but i can't study in secret forever, and one day you walk by the barn and catch me posing with it.

"you know how to use that thing?" you call out to my turned back, and i jump out of my skin and fumble the sword out of my hands. it clatters resonantly on the floor. i turn to be greeted by the shit-eating grin on your face i feared i would see.

"don't sneak up on me like that! _"_

"or what? you'll move on me with that sword?"

"i might," i grumble, bending to pick it up. "what are you doing out here?"

you lean on the barn gate, and the pretty slouch in your shoulders gives me pause. "looking for you. i know you to disappear, but usually to your room, not out here."

i frown and sheathe the sword. “are you reporting my whereabouts and activities? are you a spy?"

you laugh. "i can't be concerned for your own sake?" you undo the latch on the gate and come into the barnyard. the chickens note your presence with idle clucking. "come on, kid. let's see that weapon."

i pass you the sword, our fingers brushing over its hilt. you examine its length, balance it on your palms, and pull a few inches of the blade from the sheath to examine the engraving at the base. "where did you get this?"

"found it in a lake. some woman held it aloft and i took it while my boat was passing by."

your voice flattens. "hilarious. no, really, where did this come from? it's old, but it's gorgeous."

i shrug. "sort of a family heirloom, i suppose. from our older and more glorious days. nobody left with desire to use it but me."

you unsheathe the sword fully and gingerly test its sharpness on your thumb. "you want to be a knight?"

"not really. just would like to know i could hold my own, should i ever need to fight."

"well, you couldn't."

my face falls, and i open my mouth to defend myself to you, but you cut me off.

"you can't kill anything with a blade this dull."

you look up at me with a wicked little quirk in your brow and i can’t decide whether to smile or groan, so i do both.

“i don’t want to kill anything _yet_. i just want to practice my swing. i feel like if i sharpen the blade now, i’ll summon something i’m not ready for.”

your voice drops an octave, and suddenly the air cools around us. your face is deadly serious. “and if you wait too long, you’ll fuck yourself even harder than if your blade was battle-ready. we live in dangerous times. best to at least prepare the tools, because you’ll never really be ready for whatever comes for you.”

you hold the sword up to me across your palms, and i look down at it. my family’s crest glints up at me, a crest i didn’t even know we had, a crest whose symbols may as well mean nothing to me for all that i understand about them. i feel some guilt in even having it, though by right i possess it. “i just...i have no idea what i’m doing. i don’t even know why i have this. i just want an opportunity to not lay down and die if i can help it.”

your eyes brighten with eagerness. "are you asking for a lesson?"

i smile, relieved that you were the one who found me here. "only if you're offering it."

what i thought would be a few minutes of advice becomes a habit, at your insistence, and we meet every day in this quiet farmyard when the cool of the morning still lingers over the grass. you have your ways with teaching me, and i come to know them well. at first, it's just you watching my footwork and correcting my grip. i feel exposed under your eye, and i look over often for approval as i pace back and forth with my parries against invisible attacks. i'm not sure if i want you to come over and adjust my posture yourself until your impatience with verbal description leaves you to resort to it, and then i know i do want you to do it. i have a bad habit of not lowering my stance enough to keep my balance, and when you bring your sword out to have me practice parries against you, you'll tap my thigh with the flat of your blade to get me to squat deeper. but when i manage to complete the little sequences you have me do, advancing (overhand, left, right, overhand, disarm) or defending (left, right, underhand, duck, lunge), you say "good, good, good! yes! excellent!" with every maneuver. i watch your face very closely, obsessed with tracking its expressions, and hoping that when i do well, i can make you smile.

\-----

"you ready for this?"

after many torturous cycles of error and triumph, you hold your sword in hand to spar with me. i nod, ready as i'll ever be. you lift your blade and the muscles in your arms and shoulders grow taut with anticipation, and mine follow suit. we start to circle each other in the barnyard where you showed me how to proceed from here. you hold my gaze intently, with a bit of a smile that says _by all means, take your time_. i take a deep breath in, and i go first.

i rush at you to close the distance and swing at you hard from my right-hand side. it's an obvious move and executed with more force than grace. you catch it with your blade easily, but i feel your footing compensate for my aggression. you push me off and stab at my torso, but i dodge and wind up for a high backhanded swing. you duck to miss it and parry my blade back down, but i strain against it. we look up and find ourselves looking directly at each other, and through your set jaw you manage to give me a smile. i smile back, strained from the effort, and i use the opportunity to shift quickly and stab. your weight leaning so firmly forward against my sword makes you stumble and nearly fall right onto my blade, but you regain yourself and come at me with a series of quick swings. i manage to block every one as i reel backwards.

"you're doing wonderfully," you tell me, out of breath but grinning.

"really?"

"however--"

i find my back pressed into a fencepost and your sword a hair shy of my throat. you sent me all the way backwards in a straight line and i never adjusted my course. i watch you watch me squirm, the tip of the blade just close enough to draw blood if i moved.

"--not well enough to kill me first."

i huff a dry, fearful laugh between panting breaths, and i feel the tender skin of my throat barely kiss the blade. you lower it and let me up, and i touch my neck--no cut. i'm not sure how you managed that, but you clap a hand on my shoulder and pull me up beside you with your easy warmth.

"cheer up, i won't hold it against you."

i scoff, but i’m smiling when i complain. "bastard, you could’ve at least let me win my first go!”

you laugh at me and trail your hand up to the nape of my neck, and our eyes lock. "i respect you too much to go easy on you. we'll just keep sparring until you can beat me on your own merits. now, have you had enough today, or do you wanna go another round?"

i'm still catching my breath, and i'm so exhausted that i'm losing my filter. "you know, i really feel like i ought to be the one asking _you_ that question."

i feel your fingers curl slightly, just beneath my hair. "why do you say that?"

i shake my head and try to bore holes in you with my eyes. "you know what i mean."

we regard each other, still sweating and breathing hard from our battle, and your fingers tool softly with my hair. it’s nice. it makes me go very still for what feels like a long time. you haven’t said anything, but you haven’t pulled away...i lean in towards you with the slightest inclination in the tilt of my head, and you come and kiss me, closed-mouthed, soft, very carefully. i close my eyes and relax against you, and lay my hand to rest over your beating heart. i've been thinking about this, about you, nonstop since you found me alone hopelessly flailing, but i still can’t quite believe that you would take me up on such a cagey declaration of my feelings. you seem unsure, but i can tell you've thought about me, too--you keep kissing me, after all. you smell of sweat and iron, and the sword you’re still holding slips through your fingers when i slip my tongue into your mouth.

a goat bleats and startles us, but it's only a moment of staring dumbstruck at each other before we find laughter. i glance at the barn, full of hay, and you follow my gaze and quirk your brow at me. 

“what is it? you want--?”

"...better in there than out here," i say, my tongue feeling a bit too large in my throat to say what i mean directly.

"are you sure you don't want the goat to watch?" you let your hands roam my waist and shoot the goat a furtive glance, making me cackle. it regards you with indifference, smacking with its muzzle full of square brown teeth.

i shake my head. "we’ll be caught if we go back.”

“we’ve already been caught,” you say, with a jerk of your head to the goat. i feel the fencepost behind me against my back and you bring your voice close to my lips, smug as anything and smooth as milk. “i think you’re just impatient.”

i flush wildly red. i’d let you take me here against the fencepost if i weren’t so terrified of being seen. you close the short space between us and pull me tight to your chest, damp and blown cool by the breeze. it wasn't _totally_ unexpected that you felt the same (why else would you offer to keep coming out here every day to teach a clueless rube how to swing a sword around?), but i still feel thrilled and relieved that you're kissing me like it was all your idea. good-natured and attentive and always ready with a joke--and you make the cutest little noise when i venture some impertinence and grab your ass.

you hum--your voice is rough. you sound impressed that i pulled a move like that, which makes me feel intoxicated with power. "cheeky."

i run my hand down your thigh. " _you're_ cheeky. must be the stance." you hitch that leg over my hips, staring up at me through your lashes, and i break out into laughter as i struggle to bear your weight. i heave you off of me with a nudge. "if you think i'm carrying you up there, you're dreaming."

you call after me, sauntering backwards towards the barn with a foolish grin slapped over your mouth, "you could do it! your arms are much stronger now than when you started."

"not _that_ much stronger," i say, nearly tripping in my haste to catch up to you.

we clamber up to the hayloft, and the bright smell of the fresh harvest laid out to dry drifts up from the floor to mingle with the dregs of last year's stored up here--it reminds me of pressing my nose up to the place where pages meet inside an old book. the floor creaks beneath your worn boots when you turn to face me, and though i was the one who imparted the idea, i'm suddenly shy when faced with the prospect of committing to it. you see me wringing my fingers the way i always do when at a loss, and you take both of my hands in yours and speak to me very gently.

"do you want to? here and now? or should we wait?"

"i just--” i choke on a nervous giggle. “i didn't think i'd get this far. i was half-convinced i'd been imagining it this whole time."

you chuckle and stare down at our hands, brushing your thumb over my knuckles. "well, you do have quite the imagination. but you would have imagined someone more--i dunno. someone more."

i fold my brow and soften the edges of my voice. "no, no, don't say that." my legs are shaking and my mouth is drying up with nerves, but i won't have you disparage yourself to me. "you're wonderful. i thought i was imagining it because i couldn't believe it."

you smile at me with an achingly soft wrinkle about your eyes, shining with something i haven't seen in them before--nostalgia? are you remembering someone else when you look at me? i can hardly hear you murmur _ah, let me look at you,_ like you're speaking from far away when you take my face in your calloused hands. your eyes trail slowly over my features, lingering. i won't ask you about it now. seems cruel to prod whatever old wound you're hiding. but maybe there was someone else a lifetime ago who had my face, spoke with my voice.

"can i be terribly sincere for a moment?" you ask.

i laugh. you're already tenderly gazing at me with both my cheeks cupped in your palms. "yes."

you run a hand softly over my head. "you work so hard for me and you're such a quick learner. and so brave for wanting to learn in the first place. i hope i've told you before, but if i haven’t yet, just know that i am so proud of your progress with me and so happy that you trusted me to teach you. i’m truly honored by it."

whenever you compliment me, i feel like whizzing firecrackers are going off in my brain. i’m almost lightheaded with encouragement. i think i can feel myself leaning forward like i'm falling into your arms. i realize i _am_ falling forward into your arms, and you catch me and pull me into your chest with a laugh that i can feel vibrate in your breastbone.

"is one little 'good job' enough to make you faint?"

“oh, don’t tease me,” i mumble into your shirt, and i wrap my arms around you tight so you can’t pull me away and make me show you my face. “that was more than a little ‘good job’.” you’re being mean. i’m _humiliatingly_ eager to please, and you would know that better than anyone. but if you weren’t just saying that to see my reaction--if you meant all of it and you really were proud of me...

you're softly petting my head, and the smell of your skin is so familiar and grounding that it makes me want to cry. i realize that despite my nervousness, i don't feel fear. when you're with me, i trust you to make sure i'm alright. i know that nothing bad will happen with me and you up here. and if you're proud of me, then that means i have no reasons to be nervous anymore. i’m not going to disappoint you. i can be brave.

i lift my head and look up at you. your face has gone very still and soft. i stand upright and take your hand with a small smile, and i bring you over to the tufted piles of hay. last year's harvest sits in wait to thatch roofs, line stables, and kindle fires in winter--and for now, it will cradle you, and you will cradle me.

the itch of the hay keeps us in our clothes everywhere except where necessary, but we are no less touched for it. i slide my hand beneath your shirt to feel your skin anywhere that i can reach it (your tight back, your clavicles, your stomach that sucks back away from my hand in surprise). your hand loves the nape of my neck, and i feel that yours is the hand that most belongs there, as if it was one of my own. it guides me to do things i've never done, but because it's you, and i trust that your confidence in my capability warrants my own, i don't fear repercussions for disappointing you. i can stop thinking about me and watch you from my knees with total devotion instead; every shift of your weight and staggering breath that catches on your vocal cords when i suck you off is a revelation. i could never leave you this worked up when we sparred, and i can't help but feel that i've won something over you when you tell me in a thin voice that i have to hold off, and i do. 

you pull yourself up on your elbows to look at me, flush rising high on your cheeks, and you wheeze, "come here...come here, sit up on me."

i clamber back up onto your lap and your hands are a little unsteady when they grasp at my belt, so i work it off with you, a flood of affection for you swelling a laugh in my chest.

"what, are you laughing at me?*

"i'm not!"

"you cursed me, you witch; i never stood a chance! don't sit there and laugh about it!"

i laugh harder at the loving edge of exasperation in your voice, but it gets cut off with a shuddering sigh when i ease down and take you into me.

"i cursed you?"

"you did." you sit up a little more and bring your arm about my hips, splayed wide over you. your other hand cups my cheek, centering me and drawing our eyes back to each other's. "you make me remember things i swore i would forget. people long dead."

i search your expression for that same sadness i saw earlier. whispers of it linger in the dark hollows around your eyes, but not in your look or the set of your mouth. the sun that pours in through the loft window casts your face in gold. "is that why you took an...interest in me? i remind you of someone?"

you shift deeper into me and i push my face into the heel of your palm, as if it would muffle my cry. your voice comes as a rasp when you ask me, "are you jealous, kid?"

i'm breathing hard, lips parted, and my teeth graze your palm. i say nothing in answer. i barely know what my feelings are, and i can't think anymore with you inside me. i just say your name, and _please._ your eyes flare, and my guts clench up in wait.

we don't speak any more of the past for a while. we don't speak. instead, you lay me back into the hay and fuck me with a desperate urgency, the heels of your palms pressing deep into my hipbones. in isolated moments in my room, thinking of you, i had trained myself into silence in terror of being caught, but now i can't keep my hitching breath from catching in my voice whenever you thrust into me. you string curses into half-moaned prayers with your face buried in the bend of my neck, your lips moving on my skin.

with a groan, we're both spent in a heap of tangled limbs, limp and glistening in the hay. the rest of the world slowly comes into focus again—the birdsong outside, the tutting of unconcerned animals, the breeze coming through the solid boards of the barn. i focus on a dim corner of the barn roof and try to regain my wits. i don't like to leave questions unanswered.

"it's not...my place. to be jealous. you've known many great people. i'm lucky to be known by you at all."

you pull yourself up on one elbow to give me an offended look, sweat slicking your hair to your forehead. "'not your _place'?_ don't talk like a servant to me."

"i'm not. i'm talking like a...like an apprentice to a great master, who's taught much greater than me. isn't that what i am?"

you bring your lips near my ear to place a tiny kiss there and speak to me softly, your wonderful hand laid at my waist and pulling me into you:

"i'm only remembering people, not comparing them to you. this isn't anything so simple as that. i know who _you_ are, how good and precious you are to me, how kind and brilliant. the time i spent with others informs me of how very lucky i am to have you here now. stop wondering if they were greater than you, whatever that means. i draw no such distinction with those i love."

the words _good, precious, kind,_ and _brilliant_ melt me like butter in the sun, but _love_ jolts me awake. i roll over to look you in the eye, and your face meets mine spread into a lazy, half-lidded smile.

"you love me?"

"have i never told you before?"

"well—not so plainly."

i lay gazing at you and let the declaration sink in. your face is perfect to me—every whisker and wrinkle and scar, every twitch of a muscle into a new expression fascinates me. your face belies your lifetimes of roaming, the legends bearing your name, the battles fought and survived for kingdoms past and distant. you've dined with people i could only dream of, and may have lain with them, too. registering that you _love_ _me_ takes a long while of my look tracing over your features. the longer i stay silent, the more your brows turn up to worry.

"is...that alright?"

_"alright?"_ i give you a wobbly smile and hook my arm under yours and around your shoulder, solid and constant. "of course it's alright. it's more than i could ever ask for."

you bump your forehead to mine, and though we've crossed into something new and different, you can't resist the pleasure you take in stepping on my lines.

"now, have you had enough, or do you want to go another round?"

"you are so—"


End file.
